


ǝ ʌ ǝ ɹ ɯ o ɹ ǝ

by motherofrevels



Series: L'enfant bleu Cendrillon — null [4]
Category: Onward (2020)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Kissing, M/M, Mystery, Near Death Experiences, Oral Sex, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:09:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28313592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motherofrevels/pseuds/motherofrevels
Summary: Stolen by the echo of a father’s love.CONTENT WARNING: Please consider reading the applied tags carefully.
Relationships: Ian Lightfoot/Original Male Character(s), Ian Lightfoot/Wilden Lightfoot
Series: L'enfant bleu Cendrillon — null [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1972084
Comments: 12
Kudos: 6





	1. 🌑 t h e   l a k e s 🌑

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction containing potentially triggering content, potentially involving both parental and sibling incest. If this bothers you in any way, please feel free to check out some of the other, far more amazing works of fiction by some of the other, far more talented writers here on Archive of Our Own. Thank-you!

“What’s it _like?_ ” came Ian’s muted query; the fullness of a lower lip drawn between teeth.

Wilden quirked an unmanaged brow, searching his progeny’s youthful face for any indication of his meaning.

“Come again?” he replied, offering a mellow smile in attempted reassurance. Though it remained unseen; valentines shadowing the descent of their sky’s greatest star.

“ _Dying?"_

**• • •**

_Peaceful_.

His father’s description had been accurate.

Dark and peaceful.

The kind of peace that no amount of liquor could provide.

The kind of peace that follows the reposing of your weary head against your pillow.

The kind of peace that comes from knowing that your crusade has decisively reached its willing end.

After years of fruitlessly exorcizing his demons of mediocrity, and endeavoring to walk within his father’s violet footsteps, Iandore fervently embraced the notion of eternal sleep.

He regarded his drowning as an opportunity. A _baptism,_ if you will. A lightless cleansing of his intransigence and incompetence.

Of course, he couldn’t help but consider the sentiments of his _family_. The handful of people he _considered_ his family, at least.

His mother, his brother, Sadalia, Jenevieve, Neighdyn, Tanner . . .

All deeply cherished and spoken for.

 _Colt_ had proven himself time and again to be an adequate match for his mother, as well as affording an alternative voice of reason for he and his sibling.

The Centaur was frequently misconstrued; of that much Ian was certain. But even without her sons to safeguard her, the mage believed himself to be leaving his mother in capable hands.

And the semblances between his parents and his high-school colleagues—Sadalia and Neighdyn—were _extraordinary_ , erratic as their inception may have been. Nevertheless, their happy ending story was at hand.

Though Ian hoped that in the world beyond, he might be permitted to carry the memory of his cousin’s audacious post-graduation proposal.

For in his heart of hearts he knew himself to be forever damned for what he’d done to Neighdyn March.

And _Tanner_ , for that matter.

But peace was _also_ found in knowing that the beast who would become a prince was right where he belonged, guided by a woman who adored him, notwithstanding his faults.

Thus, their ill-fated romance—veiled in scenic gardens and moonlit drives—would be abandoned and usurped by even more _resplendent_ memories.

 _This_ time, with the measure of passion the bemused exile deserved above all others.

As for _Jenevieve_ , the adept understood her sorrows wouldn’t be forevermore. The pain of loss was sure to wane, with valor blooming in its place. Not a single soul within his listless city had ever shone more brilliantly than his childhood friend . . .

Well, save for _one_.

 _The_ one.

But _Barley_ wouldn’t miss him.

No, his sumptuous champion would finally be spared the woe of his transgressions.

No more lying. No more longing.

Just one final loss.

At least they’d been allowed a parting kiss.

What better way to close their unrequited chapter, than with an illustration of devotion?

The fragrance of smoked sage and purging fire still lingered on the fullness of his lips, his guardian’s aroma marking him even within this suspended calm.

It was _almost_ though his elder were alongside him, luring him from dour mortality, accompanied by the crackling of a distant fire . . .

Or _was_ the fire all that distant?

The sensations had grown ever so vibrant, gracing his profound nose and flourished ears as though they were just beyond some abundant threshold in which he need only open to partake—

**• • •**

A weary gaze of candied garnet fluttered against the mellow incursion of amber luminance, surroundings progressively coming into focus as Iandore reviewed their quaint particulars.

Hauntingly familiar, but from where was his remembrance being drawn?

He bolstered himself upon an elbow—cherubic mane skewed by sleep and fever—drinking in the firelit ambience of what appeared to be a humble cabin, adorned with patchwork over decay.

It was then that he identified a figure—all unkempt beard and unctuous hair—nestled in the rightmost corner of the capacious room, pouring over a leatherbound novel by candlelight.

“Good evening,” the stranger welcomed, focus never waning from its place upon his prose; though the decadence of his timbre sent shivers throughout the sylphlike youth ensnared within his sheets.

“ _Hey_ . . . U-Uhm— _Where_ —Where _am_ I?”

But the barbate scholar held his tongue, examining the pages of his nacreous fable.

And Iandore examined _him_ in-kind, discomfort billowing within him—

“In my _home_ ,” his host replied at length, and once again the illusionist found his senses embellished by remembrance.

“O- _Oh_ . . . Okay,” the tremulous fey began, brows tightly knit in trepidation as he labored to clarify his position. “Well, how did I _get_ here?”

The question was as good as any, he supposed—taking note of the shudder in the stranger’s hands from their place upon his tale.

“I was fishing by the lakes this morning,” the savant explained, following a clear of his throat. “Found you washed up on the shore.”

The magician balked, confectioned gaze descending to the threadbare edges of what he presumed to be his host’s mattress, mere glimmers of his prior engagements dappling his remembrance.

“This—This _morning_ . . .” he trailed, peering into the darkness beyond his closest window. “I-I’m sorry, can I use your _phone?_ I’ve gotta call my _family_ —”

“No phone for you to use,” the reader intervened, neglected brows furrowing beneath the shadow of his baseball cap. “Closest phone is at the Swamp Gas on the edge of town. But you won’t be getting there in _this_ weather.”

Anxiety marred the mage’s countenance, freckled lips parting to pose his next inquiry.

“W-What do you _mean?_ What’s going on with the _weather?_ ”

“Another _snowstorm_ blew in this afternoon . . . The roads are buried. So are the bridges,” the stranger apprised, voice graced by melancholy. “Outside that door? Nothing but a wall of snow . . . Until this storm blows over, there’s nothing we can do but—”

“ _Wait_ a minute,” the conjurer inserted, red-velvet flitting along the details of their timber prison. “This house—That _fireplace_ . . . I-I’ve _been_ _here_ before. I-I-I _know_ this place—Things are _different_ —But—,” he stammered, heartbeat thundering in his ears as he trailed his vision back toward his ethereal host.

Recognition lit the sorcerer’s youthful visage.

He clambered from the fraying mattress, bare beneath the emerald down of an oversized flannel . . .

And then his vision seemed to whirl, knees buckling beneath the onset of vertigo—but in an instant, he found himself supported; broad hands encircling his delicate waist as he stumbled into the sage’s chest.

“You almost _drowned_ this morning, boy,” the stranger grumbled, adjusting his grip upon his unsteady visitor. “No sense in riling yourself _up_ . . . _Much_ _less_ over a cabin in the woods.”

But when at last their gazes met—Midasian treasure hailing rusted valentines—a quivering gasp tore itself from sun-flecked lips.

“D- _Dad?_. . . **_Daddy_** _?_ ”

And Ian’s world was eventide, allowing himself to be tenderly coaxed into a seat upon his former tangle of tattered quilts.

“Hoarfrost,” the scholar professed, timbre draped in gilded velvet, “ _Holden_ Hoarfrost.”


	2. 🌘 c l o s u r e 🌘

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With this, the disquiet between them began to dissipate.

Less than a single day had lapsed since Iandore awakened to find himself in the presence of a stranger donning his father’s character. Their initial encounter had been surreal at best, and following several hours of attempted dialogue, his spectral host had remained predominantly silent. The mage’s inquests were met with utmost brevity, and his elder ostensibly _insisted_ upon imprecision.

And there he sat, the blighted image of his progenitor; pools of liquid treasure sweeping along the pages of his leatherbound tale, chapped lips only visible beneath his moustache due to its arrangement into crescent peaks.

“ _How_ —”

Iandore faltered as discernible tautness engulfed the erudite stranger seated before the whispering hearth.

“How long have you been growing out your _beard?_ ” he continued; practiced nectar on his lips, and doll-eyes brimming with hesitance. “My brother has one, _too_ . . . I-I always _wanted_ one, but I guess I didn’t inherit the—”

“It wouldn’t suit you,” the scholar interceded, a tremble in his touch as he turned another page.

Ample brows furrowed in dissent, delicate hands elevating to adjust the cable-knit cardigan slipping from placid shoulders.

“Gee, _thanks_ , Mr. Hoarfrost,” Ian muttered, the fullness of his lips sinking into a sulk.

For a time, the wizard allowed the crackle of flame and ember to saturate the stillness between them. But in the end, he found himself bested by his trademark raw nerve.

“ _So_ . . . you never answered about your _beard_ —”

“Does the silence _deafen_ you, boy?” the sage reproached, unkempt brows descending to frame the sunset of his glower, fixed upon the ragged pages beneath his fingertips. “Or do you simply thrive _on idle chatter?_ ”

There was no malice in his inquisition, only exhaustion and disenchantment.

But his hands—tremoring in their purchase upon his weathered novel—caught his visitor’s watchful eye.

“I’m . . . _Look_ , I’m sorry. I just—I-I’ve never _dealt_ with this before,” the magus opened, supple hands balling into fists. “For all _I_ know, we could be stuck in here for _months_. A-And I’m . . . You’re kinda _scaring_ me,” he trailed, provoking a subsequent onset of tension from his host. “I-I’m not trying to be _rude!_ I just—I don’t know anything _about_ you, and you hardly _speak_ to me, and we’re _trapped_ in here without my staff—!”

“And what of your _family?_ ” Holden interposed once more, gilded ivy gliding along the base of his page. “They’ve likely contacted the authorities . . . Issued a search party for you . . . You shouldn’t be here long.”

But Ian merely tsked, candied garnet examining the threadbare coverlet beneath his folded knees.

“They’ll never find me without my _phone_ ,” groused the magician, resignation billowing within him. “I doubt they even realize I’m _gone_ . . .”

At this, an elevation of eventide; the stranger’s attention roused from the lull of his fable to scrutinize his decorous guest.

“You’re _far_ too _spoiled_ to believe that,” the savant countered, furrowing a feathered brow. “Rest assured, you’re _very_ loved. I can _smell_ the adoration on you—"

“Well _that_ sounds fuckin’ _creepy_ ,” Ian spat, twilit-velvet hailing honeyed-olive.

Therein flourished a second calm, shadowed by a tempering of visage.

“I-I’m _sorry_ . . . I just—I’m stressing out,” the sorcerer excused, swallowing his anxiousness. “I asked you to talk, then I insulted you . . . This whole situation’s just freaking me out.”

“Quite alright,” the sophist pardoned, reticently sealing his prose. “In the spirit of _candor_ . . . _‘You’re kinda scaring me’_ , as well . . . I’ve always valued my privacy. But I never intended to _frighten_ you . . .”

Iandore feigned comprehension, nodding despite his curiosity.

“If it would bring you any _peace_ , however,” the logician continued, resting his novel into his fustian-clad lap, “I’ll lend my ear, and answer what I’m able.”

With this, the disquiet between them began to dissipate.

“O-Oh. _Sure_. Uhm,” the illusionist teetered, confectioned gaze flitting along the elements of their ligneous shelter. “ _So_ . . . _Speaking_ of—Y-You asked me about my family. Do _you_ have any—”

“ _Sons_ ,” Holden interjected, prompting a muted gasp from his freckled guest. “Two boys.”

And once again, the summoner labored to still his nerves.

“That’s . . . That’s _crazy_! I-I mean, I mentioned my brother, _Barley_ , right? The one who teaches at my— _Anyway_ —And you just—You look _so much_ like our _Dad!_ It’s just,” he wavered, noting the melancholy marring his host’s rugged countenance. “S-Sorry . . . I’ll stop bringing it up. But like—I mean— _Sons_ . . . That’s _great_. How old are they?”

“I . . . haven’t spoken to them in quite some time,” the scholar confessed, an indecipherable tic lighting the edges of his bearded lips. “Over the _years_ , we . . . We’ve grown _apart_ , you see. But I’d _like_ to say they can’t be much older than _you_ . . . If memory _serves_ ,” he concluded with an air of humor, tenuous as it may have been.

“ _Oh_ . . . Okay,” nodded the enchanter, adjusting himself upon his elder’s bed. “A-And what about their _Mom?_ Are they _with_ her—?”

“Might we discuss something _else?_ ” the sage appealed, fingers shuddering from their place upon his resting novel. “Forgive me. But I’ve _had_ my closure. I’d rather not dwell on this.”

Another nod from Iandore, submitted in apprehension.

“ _Yeah_ . . . Sure. _Sorry_. Uh . . . So how long have you _been_ here?” the younger probed, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. “I guess you like the _quiet_ , huh? . . . I-I _get_ that. I like quiet places, too.”

A doleful snort and a dithering nod heralded his host’s response.

“A long time . . . A _very_ long time,” the hermit retorted, observing the trepidation dwindling from his guest’s willowy frame. “You must be _famished_ . . . You haven’t eaten since you arrived.”

“I haven’t _showered_ either,” the prodigy quipped, extending a sheepish grin. “I-It’s—It’s _broken_ , right? Your shower?”

“Not at all,” the philosopher countered, head tipping curiously. “You’re welcome to it anytime.”

At this, the wizard quirked a brow; eyes of incredulous confection darting from the sage’s unctuous tresses, to the soot blackening his fingertips. His examination hadn’t gone unobserved, discernable fever rouging Holden’s otherwise immaculate complexion.

“ _Oh_ . . . Well, _yeah_. A shower would be _great_ , then,” the spellcaster asserted, toiling to liberate himself from the channel he’d worn into the mattress.

“Let me help you,” the recluse proposed, placing his tome behind him as he rose from his armchair, traversing the room to guide his junior into an unsteady stand. “How’s your pain?”

And once again, a waltz of amber and axinite; the wizard flushing beneath the gravity of his elder’s luxuriant stare.

“U-Uh—I’m _fine_. I haven’t really _been_ in any pain,” Ian shrugged, allowing the stranger’s trembling hands to steady him. “Just having trouble with my legs . . . When I’m _sitting_ I’m okay, but when I _stand_ . . .”

“Take all the time you need,” the scholar reasoned, pouring over the dappled details of his frangible company. “No reason to push yourself. Focus on your _recovery_ . . . Let me help you walk.”

With this, the greater man endeavored to escort his brittle visitor toward the center of the room, but found the youth stripped of his bearings.

“I-I’m sorry. I’m _dizzy_. I don’t _get_ it—”

“Don’t apologize . . . Shall I _carry_ _you_ again? Like I did this morning?”

Silence overtook the dainty adept, guiltless eyes blinking owlishly as he contemplated his elder’s offer.

“ _Very_ _well_ , then,” Holden grumbled, stooping to draw the gauzy conjurer into his arms, eliciting a yelp of surprise (followed by a bashful chuckle).

Though as they crossed into the bathroom—faintly lit by the nebulous winter sky—Ian couldn’t help but grimace at his vulnerability, and the heady scent of scorched herbs and spices emanating from his barbate ally.

“ _Here_ you are,” Holden announced, judiciously balancing his precious cargo before the glass stall. “Careful. _Pace_ yourself . . . Need me to _help_ you—?”

“ ** _No_** _!_ ” Ian piped, palpitations thundering in his flourished ears. “I-I mean, _I’ve_ got it from here . . . _Thanks_ , though,” he added, blue-rose glowing muted scarlet. “A-Actually _you_ should—”

He pondered his delivery, the tilting of his elder’s head conveying his attentiveness.

“ _Erm_ —Well, _y’know_ . . . _You_ should—Maybe _you_ could jump in, sometime? A-After _me,_ maybe?”

A second flush adorned his elder’s solemn visage.

“ _Right_ . . . My apologies,” Holden acquiesced, the corners of his mustache flickering as he grappled with a smile. “I suppose it’s been a while.”

“I-I mean it’s,” Ian paused, brows knitting in apology, “It’s _pretty_ _bad_ . . . I guess since you’re alone, you didn’t _notice?_ A-And that’s _okay_ , but . . .”

Heeding the tension along his elder’s jaw, Ian settled upon a chaste bite of his lower lip, aptly quieting himself.

But the scholar promptly tempered his expression, elevating a quivering palm to linger between himself and his guest.

Almost as if contemplating—

“Just . . . _call_ _out_ when you need me. I’ll start dinner.”

Thusly, the magus was awarded his transitory solitude;

The shadow of his father merely footfalls in the corridor.


	3. 🌗 g o l d r u s h 🌗

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In sleep, consent was dubious.

Wordlessness descended upon him; the bubbles of his virgin champagne fluttering to the surface as though endeavoring to escape the diamond sleeping at the bottom of its limpid crevasse.

What had been the sportsman’s envisioned outcome?

Companions on the fringes of adulthood, their graduation ceremony only just behind them . . .

Was this the time or place for promises of forever?

“ _C’mon_ , darlin’. _Say_ somethin’.”

The centaur’s mirth glistered from its place across the candlelight, and Iandore excogitated the duration of which this moment might pervade his psyche.

“U- _Uhm_ . . . _Wow_ ,” the magus faltered, quivering as his vision dove to venerate the lambent treasure. “ _Nate_ . . . _This_ is—It’s _beautiful_.”

An arch of the equine’s brow shadowed the broadening of his crooked grin.

“It was my _Momma’s_ ring . . . She gave it to _me_ , to give to _you_ ,” Neighdyn confessed, obsidian gaze admiring his decorous muse. “Well, go _ahead_. Fish it _outta_ there, sugar. Ain’t gonna _bite_ ya—”

“I-I _can’t_ ,” the illusionist whispered, blameless eyes misting as they hailed his cousin’s.

The athlete balked, countenance mellowing as he reached to enclose the fey’s delicate hand.

“You _can’t?_. . . You can’t _what_ , angel? _Talk_ to me. Is it—Is it the _ring_ —?”

“N- _No_ , Neighdyn—I’m _sorry_ , I just—I can’t _do_ this,” Ian stammered, embroidered by the cascade of his tears.

“I can’t _accept_ this. I-I _can’t_ —I can’t _marry_ you.”

**• • •**

Iandore awakened with a start, perspiration embellishing his complexion as he assessed his surroundings.

Another mirthless winter day. Nothing more, and nothing less.

He could virtually _taste_ the melodrama of his lucid nightmare.

The magnificence and artistry of their inequitable romance. The terror and despondency of his comrade’s shattered ego. The opulent aurora and nacreous poetry of their estrangement . . .

What was anyone to _say,_ to a man like Neighdyn March?

He shook the grief from his cherubic head, vacillating his attention.

At the center of his ligneous bastion lie his idiosyncratic host. Slumbering before the sussurant fire, nestled into the solace of a gnarled armchair, arms entwined along the undulation of his chest, and an open fable in his lap.

A welcome distraction.

Notwithstanding the bitterness of his recurrent memory, the firelit dreamscape before him was beguiling.

But as fascination gave way to curiosity, the tenuous enchanter found himself slipping from the warmth of his elder’s mattress to pad across the wooden floor, inwardly elated to find his equilibrium restored.

And when at last he loomed before his elder, savoring the dozing details of his father’s doppelganger, the slighter man was wonderstruck.

In his current state, his host possessed an unsophisticated sort of beauty; the kind of which was controvertible only to the untrained eye. Both freshly washed and indistinctly fragrant, the scholar’s ghastly visage had been metamorphosed into something of subdued grandeur; unctuous hair and arid beard now spun from silk and lazulite.

The sorcerer repressed a grin at the notion of his father donning such an image, alleging this to be an illustration of his mystic heritage: a manifestation of Wilden the Whimsical . . .

In another life, perhaps.

But presently, forgoing his reticence, the sylphlike wizard longed for a taste of his elder’s bewhiskered lips—divining their dreamlike sapidity as he labored to reclaim his prudence—a slow descent to linger just beyond the tenderness of tranquil breath . . .

Iandore’s kiss was delicate and sweet, unblemished by his sentiments of remorse and consternation.

He recognized that he was in the wrong.

In sleep, consent was dubious.

But Holden’s flavor was spellbinding. Ethereal to a fault. A lyric of folklore in theory and practice.

And when at last the willowy mage withdrew his endearment, he found his fate appropriately sealed; to drift beneath the gold rush of the sage’s hallowed leer.

The guilt was incapacitating as it interlaced with dread; the gravity of his elder’s silence permeating every quaking nerve—

“ _Good_ _morning_ ,” came the scholar’s greeting, coarsened by lethargy. “Able to stand on your _own_ , I see . . . That’s _wonderful_.”

The summoner hesitated, the eccentric’s evasion of his awakening kiss both disquieting and bemusing him.

“G—Good morning,” Ian breathed, the fullness of his lips lingering just before the logician’s. “Uhm . . . _Yeah_. I-I _guess_ —I can _walk_ now, yeah.”

“ _Ah_ . . . Very well. I suppose I can understand why you’ve become so friendly. A cause for celebration, to be sure.”

“Mr. Hoarfrost, I’m—I-I-I’m _so_ _sorry_ —”

“There’s no need to apologize,” the sophist interjected, sumptuous gaze flitting to the conjurer’s tremulous lips.

Then fell a lasting silence, the theorist drifting his phantasmal gaze along the ostensibly vestal lips suspended equidistant to his own.

“I’d nearly forgotten how . . . _exquisite_ you taste,” he fawned, precipitation deepening the sundown of his stare. “Like innocence and iris—May I?”

The savant raised a tremoring hand, steadying his visitor before echoing their endearment, eliciting a stifled gasp.

“Violet and insolence,” he relished against the cashmere softness, “Entombed beneath the æther . . .”

The blistering ardor and enchantment overwhelmed the spellcaster, pulse elevating as he permitted himself to be devoured.

The philosopher’s tongue was nectar-sweet as it glid within the warmth of his junior’s ambitious mouth; abandon and intoxication flourishing in its wake. But when at last he’d satiated his desire for remembrance, withdrawing his affections to discover his decorous guest florid and breathless, the recluse found himself insatiable.

“My apologies,” he grumbled, eyes darkened by desire. “I _lost_ myself. It’s been too long—”

“N _-Nearly forgotten?_. . . But why would you _remember?_ ” the younger whispered, sun-kissed visage engulfed by rouge. “I-If we’ve never _met_ , then . . .”

At this, the hermit held his tongue; voracity lingering between them.

“A- _Answer_ me. _Please_ —”

“I _can’t_ ,” the elder pardoned, remorse adorning his timbre. “There’s nothing I can say that would help you _comprehend_ —”

“Just _try_ —!”

“ ** _Enough_** ,” Holden thundered, crepuscular radiance eclipsing the nightfall of his lust-blown glower.

And as stillness birthed from irrevocable horror settled over the sojourner, understanding subsequently followed; the kiss-swollen petals of his freckled lips agape with incredulity.

“ _What_ . . .” the magician trailed, bewitched by the echoes of eventide within his senior's tempering scowl. “W-What _are_ you?”

“Forgive me,” beseeched the scholar, blinking away the vespertine glow. “I’ve told you everything I’m _able_ . . . At least, for _now_.”

What was Iandore to _say_ , to a man like Holden Hoarfrost?

Swallowing his anxiousness to the extent of his ability, the delicate youth presented a broken nod, endeavoring to elevate into a stand, only to find his wrist caught within the breadth of a calloused grip.

“Please . . . _Please_ understand,” the sage appealed, Midasian leer brimming with contrition. “And rest assured, you have _nothing_ to fear. I swear that I would never _harm_ you—”

“I-I know . . _. I_ _know_. I’m not afraid,” the summoner confessed, repudiating the waver of his frame. “I just . . . I need some time to _think_ . . . _Y’know?_ I guess—I’m just—I’m gonna shower . . . _Okay?_ ”

Shadowing a pregnant pause, the syllogist hummed his understanding, allowing the slighter man to drift from his grasp.

Another mirthless winter day.

Nothing more, and nothing less.


	4. 🌖 i t ' s t i m e t o g o 🌖

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Get on all fours.”

Each day—cannibalized by the next—ostensibly interfused into one another. Beneath the intermittent snowfall and achromatic veil of overcast, there was little to distinguish daybreak from nightfall.

No phones, no television, no radio; nothing to pass the time except sporadic (heavily restricted) banter.

“Mr. Hoarfrost?” Ian chimed, seated at the threadbare edge of his host’s bed. “Can I . . . ask you a few more questions?”

From his place before the dwindling fire, the recluse drew a rueful breath, closing his novel as he exhaled; though his gaze upon the cover of his tale never faltered.

“If you must,” he groused, rigidity developing along his bearded jaw.

Suppressing his anxiousness, Iandore permitted a shuddering sigh to escape him, doe-eyes flitting about the room as he contemplated his approach.

“Well . . . I-I guess I just . . . The _bed_ , right?” he drifted, proffering a pause to pat the mattress beneath his lissome thighs, “This bed’s definitely—I think there’s enough room for . . . _both_ of us? S-So, _y’know_ , you don’t have to keep—Y-You don’t need to sleep in the _chair_ —”

“You’re my _guest_ , Mr. Lightfoot . . . I don’t have much else to offer you in the way of comfort. The very _least_ I can do is grant you a bit of privacy while you sleep—”

“Well, what if I don’t _want_ that?” the spellcaster interjected, permitting an ephemeral silence to settle between them before persisting, “I-I mean . . . A few days ago, when . . . When I _kissed_ you, you kissed me _back_ —A-And then, you asked to kiss me _yesterday_ , so . . . So, if that’s how you feel, then shouldn’t we just—”

“ _No_ ,” the sage contested, Midasian leer elevating to hail his junior’s. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“A- _Actually_ ,” the magus tittered incredulously, “I know _exactly_ what I’m asking . . . I mean, i-if you’re not _into_ me like that, I _get_ it! But you were pressing up against me yesterday, and I’m _pretty sure_ I felt your—”

“It’s not _about_ what _I_ want,” Holden dissented, echoing departed midsummer sentiments.

Recognition wasn’t lost to Iandore; the coiled hairs at the nape of his willowy neck rising in response.

“It’s about . . . keeping things _consistent_ ,” the elder concluded, focus sauntering along the younger’s exposed thighs. “Keeping you _safe_.”

A second vacuous silence simmered between them, the sun-kissed summoner gnawing at his lower lip as he pondered a successive inquiry.

“ _Safe?_ ” the sorcerer questioned, proffering an arch of an ample brow. “Why wouldn’t I be safe? A- _Are_ . . . Are you _sick?_ ”

The inquiry elicited a dusky snicker from his bearded elder, whose gilded gaze rose to capture his own.

“Not in the way you might _imagine_ ,” Holden replied, unblinking as he examined his quavering guest. “I can’t . . . _trust_ myself around you, Iandore,” he contended next, allowing his sights to descend upon the wizard reticent lips. “I don’t expect you to understand . . . Truthfully, I’d much prefer you _didn’t_.”

Though as his confession culminated, he felt a physical shift of temperance in his conversant.

“ _Mr. Hoarfrost_ ,” the conjurer began, a shake of his cherubic head presented as he deliberated. “I _know_ we haven’t known each other that long . . . I-I mean, we _still don’t_ really know each other. But that’s—That’s been on _you_ ,” he adjourned his tirade, shifting in his modest weight upon the weathered quilts.

“A-And _yeah_ , I get it, there’s something up with you. _Clearly_ —The crazy _glowing_ _eyes_ , you _look_ like my Dad, you _sound_ like my Dad, you even _taste_ like my Dad,” he gesticulated, his final revelation generating a tilt of intrigue from his elder’s cerulean head. “And this whole cabin’s like a _mirror_ of the one where we . . . Where I used to _dream_ about him,” his timbre faltered as he clenched his supple fists, candied garnet delving to trace the details in the flooring.

“ _Sometimes_ I . . . Sometimes I wonder if all of this is even _real_. For all _I_ know, I could have _drowned_ that night after the bar— _So_ —So maybe this is _Valhalla_. Maybe this is _Hel_. Maybe, it doesn’t even _matter_.”

Eyes of blameless axinite trailed to meet his father’s shadow once again.

“But if . . . If this is gonna be _forever?_ Then—I-I—I don’t wanna spend it begging you for answers. And even if it’s not, I don’t wanna spend it sleeping in an empty bed . . . So,” he shrugged, full brows drawn in dissention.

“Can we—Will you just _come here?_ ”

The intensity of his demand was lost to the thundering undercurrent of hesitation. Though following a peremptory collision of rusted valentine and sumptuous treasure, the bewhiskered scholar found himself unaccountably beckoned to obey.

He swallowed at the apprehension welling within his throat, thumbing across his leatherbound fable as he ascended to the fullness of his height; tentative footfalls creaking along the dilapidated flooring before coming to light equidistant to his dappled visitor.

And beneath the luxuriant leer of his lumbering elder, Iandore endeavored for purchase upon the sage’s weathered belt—only to find his delicate wrists ensnared by the breadth of a single coarsened palm.

Though neither man submitted a single utterance, seemingly content to assess the other’s temperament.

At least, until the looming savant halfheartedly tossed his prose alongside his seated junior, descending to stoop between angular knees.

“Get on all fours.”

But the transient merely balked, ample brows furrowing beneath coils of tussled mane.

“Wh . . . _What?_ ” Ian queried, honey on his lips as he shifted restlessly. “Like— _Right now?_ But I don’t . . . I-I’m not _ready_.”

Though his mendacious ruse fell upon indifferent ears, mirthless pools of molten flax pouring over the pastel details of his youthful visage.

“Did I _stutter?_ ” Holden countered, quirking an incredulous brow as he awaited the mage’s obedience. “ _Get_. _On_. _All_. _Fours_.”

And the austerity in his timbre necessitated his guest’s immediate subservience; the magician swiftly realigning himself to balance upon his hands and knees, fawn-like eyes centering upon the unrefined headboard as warmth flourished at the pinnacle of his cheekbones.

“ _Exquisite_ ,” the scholar appraised, broad hands endeavoring to thumb across the silken geometry of his junior’s posterior. “ _Shame_ about your clothing having been damaged on your journey . . . Though I must admit, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the sight of you lounging about in one of my shirts and nothing more.”

With this, a sensation of pressure and viscous heat adorned the tautness of the younger’s exposed entrance, drawing a noise somewhere between a yelp and a gasp from the fullness of his lips.

“ **Mr. Hoarfrost** —!” Ian balked, the inception of ignominy and panic coursing through him as he felt his enigmatic host tonguing the contours of his pucker. “D-Don’t put your—Don’t _do_ that,” he pleaded, attempting to scamper away from the oral intrusion only to find himself held firmly in-place by the calloused breadth of the philosopher’s grip above his hipbones.

Though, his objections only seemed to further inspire his father’s doppelganger; balmy swirls and insatiable suckles augmenting into incessant plunges as he felt himself opened and explored.

“O-Oh _fuck_ ,” Ian whimpered, the tenuous arms supporting his weight giving way to sensory-induced enervation as he lowered his delicate chest into the blankets beneath him.

Every muscle in his body seemed to oscillate between stringency and repose as the recluse’s tongue delved beyond his sphincteric threshold, lapping against the velvet warmth of his inner walls, savoring the palate of his intimacies.

“How can you—” he paused for a gasp, blunt nails clawing at the tattered bedding. “You’re so _deep_ ,” mewled the spellcaster, vision eclipsed by glass and diamonds as something inside of him was pressed into.

The sound this tore from his parted lips fringed along the inhumane, heat and tension pooling in his loins as his thighs quivered beneath him; body conceding to its primal machinations as he arched back-and-into the invading muscle, shuddering at the blossom of a noble beard against his scrotum.

“I-I _can’t_ —” the illusionist puled, pressure billowing within him. “Just—Just _fuck_ me already,” he implored, voice not entirely has own as he labored to gather the strength required to elevate himself back into a formal prostration. “Please . . . _Please_ , Daddy—”

And all at once, the sensation of abundance was lost; the slighter man’s psyche teetering through waves of opaline pleasure as he strove for comprehension. But in the seconds that followed, he found himself effortlessly spun onto his back—extracting a cry of surprise as he came eye-to-glowing-eye with his elder.

“I’m **_not_** your _father_ ,” Holden snarled, molten eventide drizzling into dilated moonstone. “I’m _my own man_ . . . Do I make myself _clear?_ ”

But deep beneath the lightless cruelty of his velvet timbre, rested an underpinning of anguish. And therein lied sobriety for Iandore, guiltless eyes rounding as he found himself entangled between terror and remorse.

“I-I-I’m _sorry_ , Mr. Hoarfrost—”

“ **Holden** ,” the syllogist countered, brows descending to frame his luminous leer. “Call me by my _name_ ,” he directed, dense fingers plucking at the buckle of his weathered belt.

“I’m _sorry_ , Holden—”

“Don’t lie to me, _little witch_ ,” the sage opposed, tearing his belt from the loops at his hips with a practiced elegance before singlehandedly pinning his frangible visitor. “I can _smell_ the falsehood _seeping_ from those treacherous lips, _even_ over the _æther_ in your blood,” he continued, straddling the summoner as he dove to furl the leather strap around his willowy neck.

“N-No— _Wait_ —What are you—?”

“You aren’t _sorry_. You’re _afraid_ ,” the eccentric pressed, batting away the limber fingers endeavoring to unfasten the makeshift noose about their bearer’s throat. “Be still. Have _faith_ in me,” he instructed, meticulously tautening his ragged lariat, physically unyielding despite the wizard’s ardent struggle.

“P— _Please_ don’t,” the younger wheezed, edgeless nails raking along the vascular contours of Holden’s arm as tears of panic misted baby-doll eyes. “ _Please_ —”

“That’s _enough_ ,” the scholar barked, pivoting his wrist to tighten the offending strap along his hair-dusted knuckles—closely enough to significantly constrict his victim’s flow of oxygen—before pressing down into the cavity of the fey’s convulsing chest. “ _Trust_ in me.”

With this, he transposed to kneel alongside his breathless prey—mindful of his pressure—incandescent glower drifting along the faintly bruised contours of the mage’s body, eventually lighting upon the engorged member pulsating between his trembling thighs.

“You _see?_ ” Holden inquired; the corners of his barbate lips coaxed into a smirk. “I’ve devoted _lifetimes_ to uncovering your indulgences . . . You have nothing to fear. Let go of your pride. _Give_ yourself to me,” he soothed, reaching to caress the slighter man’s weeping hardness, simpering as he found his ministrations met with arches and voiceless whimpers.

“Let it take you, little love,” the sophist cooed, suppressing his own desires as he trailed his touch lower still, delving into the humid hollow beneath the conjurer’s taut scrotum. “Let me _pleasure_ you,” he appealed, finding the summoner’s entrance eager to accept his coarsened fingers as they flouted the voracious ring of muscle.

And as Iandore arched into the scholar’s incursion, he found his deprivation of oxygen had inaugurated a change in the shape and color of his pleasure; his silken grip burrowing into the scarred forearm cultivating his noose and forcing him into the mattress.

His world was phosphorescence, smoked vanilla, and forbidden pleasure.

The logician’s touch was benevolent at first, kneading his junior’s prostate with an admirable tenderness despite the telltale cascade of lucent nectar bleeding through the front of his fustian trousers. But in time—seemingly exhorted by the supple talons tearing at his skin—caresses flourished into plunges; escalating into a succession of fevered thrusts into the delicate gland, awarding his arm a touch of relief as the sorcerer’s frame seemed to tremor all at once.

“You’re almost there,” the sage professed, countenance tempering as he revised the tension running through his belt. “You feel _incredible_ around my fingers, love . . . _Give_ yourself to me,” he ordered next, penumbral embers relishing the flushed details of his lover’s face. “ _Cum_ for me,” he pressed, winding the leather strap around his knuckles one last time.

“Don’t be ashamed.”

A final muted cry tore itself from deep within Ian’s heaving chest, tears of overstimulation spilling from his sightless eyes as he convulsed against the hammering at his prostate, ribbon after ribbon of pearlescent release spilling onto Holden’s arm and the hollow of his heaving belly.

But to Iandore, it felt like flying.

Against the pressure threatening to rupture his eardrums, and the aching of his empty head, blossomed a milieu of nacreous starlight, weightlessness, and absolute pleasure.

A degree of pleasure for which perhaps he’d never been intended—

“Seems it’s time to go.”


	5. 🌕 t h e o n e 🌕

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> . . . embraced by smoke and redolent cedar.

Fire.

In his eyes and belly and in his lungs.

A suspension bathed in eventide—the embers of an evening sun.

And within that fire was cognizance; a monotonous pulsation to his right beckoning him beyond his enkindled dreamscape.

Merciless fluorescence tore a whimper from his swollen lips; though as he labored for clarity, he found himself scrutinized beneath burnished pools of liquid treasure.

“I- _Ian!_ ” Barley yelped, frailty mellowing his cadence. “Sweet fuckin’ _Eir_ , man—W-We _thought_ — _Wait!_ Don’t try to move!” the historian appealed, honeyed-olive welling with emotion. “I’ve gotta tell the _nurse_ —”

“W- _Where’s_ —” hoarseness consumed the mage’s inquiry, coaxing a cough from his sylphlike throat.

“ _Hey_ ,” his elder fussed, gliding a calloused palm along the bandage adorning his brother’s forearm. “It’s okay, Ian . . . Just take it _easy_ —”

“Where’s Holden?” the conjurer rasped, wincing as he spoke.

Barley vacillated, proffering a tilt of his unctuous head.

“ _Holden?_ ” he echoed, thumbing the ribboned canvas at his fingertips. “Ian, we . . . We don’t _know_ a Holden— _Just_ —Lemme grab the _nurse_ , alright? It’ll only take a second.”

Though as the magus found himself alone, his mind endeavored for clarity, grimacing against the stringent lighting overhead—

“Well, _good morning_ , Mr. Lightfoot,” the nurse chimed, trailing alongside his lumbering kin, “It’s nice to see you breathing on your _own_ . . . How’s your pain—?”

“Who _brought_ me here?” the spellcaster interposed, grunting as he elevated himself into a seated position. “ _My_ —My _car_ —I got into an _accident_ , right? I-I didn’t just _stroll_ in here all by my-fucking- _self_ —"

“ ** _Ian_** _!_ ” barked the monocled voyager, a scowl marring his handsomeness as he gestured to cease his junior’s efforts. “ _Easy_ , man! What’s gotten _into_ you—?!”

“I wanna know what happened to Mr. Hoarfrost!” the magician snapped, graceful fingers delving into dewy palms.

“ _Hoarfrost?_ ” the nurse inquired, cloven hooves shuffling about the vinyl tile. “We don’t have anyone on record by that name, and the man who brought you in this morning was in-and-out,” she explained, pursing her lips in apology as she brandished her clipboard in a show of acquiescence.

Though Iandore remained incredulous, anticipating the Satyr’s elucidation.

“What . . . What was he _like?_ ”

She faltered, a furrow threading through her brows as she looked to Barley for assurance, who extended a shake of his cerulean head.

“ _Well_ ,” she began, approaching the bewildered youth with an air of compassion. “He was an Elven gentleman. _High_ _Elven_ , I believe?” she contemplated, witnessing a shift in her patient’s countenance. “Tall and quiet. A little _strange_ —"

“ _That_ —That’s _him!_ ” Ian piped; bolstered by exhilaration. “I-I—He found me by _the lakes!_ He doesn’t have a phone—Doesn’t own a TV,” the sorcerer recalled, guiltless visage tempered by his caretaker’s demeanor. “B-But—I mean—If he brought me _in_ , he must have left an _address_ or something, _right?_ ”

He found his query hailed by vacuous silence.

“I-I-I mean, didn’t he have to give a _statement_ —?”

“Mr. Lightfoot, I _realize_ you’ve been through quite _a lot_ over the past several hours, but the person who brought you in was a _Mr. Hemlock_ ,” the Satyr intervened, eyes of emerald drifting along the uppermost corner of her clipboard. “He said he found you washed up on the _shoreline_ , yes. But he rushed you straight here to the intensive care unit as soon as he found you were still breathing. If he _hadn’t_ done so, let’s just say we wouldn’t be having this _conversation_.”

Upon her conclusion, trepidation lingered between them; anxious beryl darting between her weary audience.

“ _Now_ , it could be any combination of _trauma_ , _syncope_ , or the _medication_ you were administered upon arrival,” she pressed, presenting a shake of her auburn head, “But whatever memories you have of this _other_ person? Well, my best _guess_ is that you had an interesting _dream_ ,” she reasoned, viridian studying candied garnet. “I’m gonna let _the doctor_ know you’re awake.”

With this, the Lightfoot brothers found themselves alone; the eldest tendering his junior an affectionate squeeze along a frangible shoulder.

“ _Hey_ ,” Barley greeted, empathy adorning his velveteen timbre. “It’s gonna be _okay_ , buddy . . . You just had a _nightmare_. That’s all,” he asseverated next.

But Iandore remained aloof, doe-eyes skirting the breadth of his hero’s hulking physique.

“I-It . . . It felt so _real_ , Barley,” the wizard pondered, gazing into the void. “He looked and sounded just like _Dad_ ,” he continued, sunset ensnared by twilight as he met his elder’s gilded gaze. “After my birthday . . . You— _You_ _know_ the one . . . I was having these _dreams_ about _Dad_ ,” he permitted himself a tremulous sigh, “And there was this . . . this _cabin_.”

The fabler thumbed between the apexed crevasse of his sibling’s pallid hospital gown, tracing along the bruising at his vertebrae.

“And _every_ _night_ , we used to . . . I used to _see_ him there,” he croaked, setting his jaw as he ventured to curb the swell of his anguish. “A-And it was . . . _perfect_ ,” he sniffled then, crystalline grief descending his dappled cheekbones. “Just like _normal_ . . . H—How it was _supposed_ to be . . . A-A-And he was—He was _so_ _fucking_ _beautiful_ —”

In a moment of childlike veracity, the summoner allowed himself to relinquish his grief; embraced by smoke and redolent cedar.

Across the night and into the morrow, consciousness and crystal visions would wax and wane with binal moonlight.

But for Iandore, remembrance of his father’s painted world would dissipate into the æther.

Through the years replaced by nacreous devotion:

A brother’s love, exalted and divine.


End file.
